Day 1

I have always loved the sensory overload one experiences during the first 15 minutes in a new country. LA is sprawling and unapologetic – an eerie haunt I have visited so often in my imagination with Philip Marlowe. My agent Lindsey and I sit in traffic in the torrential rain and try to shake off the long-haul. There are more cars here than people, more billboards than cars. They all sell an impossibly beautiful future.

A quick shower and off to my first Oscar party. I meet some of my rivals in the category of best live action short. Lovely people. We all agree that anyone could win, but each secretly think that our own films will. I meet a woman who spends the next hour introducing me to hundreds of people and rubbing my back with such vigour that I fully expect a genie to pop out of my arse at any moment. "You must get meetings," she tells me. "A manager. Raise your profile." There is as much promotion going on at this event as there is celebration. An hour later and I am feeling jaded, which is not helped by the fact that I have been awake for 26 hours.

I head next door for a nightcap and practise my Spanish on the barman. It is a relief to be out of the industry crucible. He asks me why I'm in town and I explain. "Que bueno," he says. "Estoy un actor . . ."

Day 2

I catch up with Lindsey in the breakfast bar. She tells me that she went out with four gay Hawaiian soldiers last night. I pursue the conversation no further. We head to the Four Seasons and I am interviewed on a balcony with Danny Boyle; the Hollywood sign glowing behind us in the morning sun. I tell him that my brother Luke will never forgive him for inventing the fast-moving zombie. He tells me that he enjoyed my film and my soul dances the Macarena. During the interview the director of Toy Story 3 walks out on to the next balcony wearing a towel and Danny introduces us.

In the afternoon I visit some gifting events – places where Oscar types are given free products in exchange for a few promotional snap shots. Sam Holland (Wish 143's leading man) and I turn up at Paramount Studios, grab our baskets and head in. Five minutes later we leave with the following – a jar of vegan multivitamins for kids, spicy pepper chutney, some insoles and a self-hypnosis CD. The absurdity of it all strikes me in the car park as Verne Troyer rolls past me on a motorised scooter with his entourage and I laugh so hard I worry about cracking a rib.

Day 3

My 27th birthday. Today is already a disaster – Arsenal have blown their first chance in five years to win some silverware. Disillusioned, I wander down to the pool and prepare for an interview with ITN. Lindsey tells me to lose the shades – they could make me look like a prick. It's good we can be honest with each other.

The limo takes us to the ceremony. Thousands of people line the closed-off streets, waving at the limousines with blacked-out windows. Banks of reporters flanked by FBI agents press up against the barriers to grab the attention of film stars while a fleet of helicopters dance over head. For better or worse I feel like I am at the centre of the western world. The red carpet goes on for ever, but not as long as the ceremony. Sam and I sit in the gods and watch Jake Gyllenhaal announce that we haven't won. I surprise myself by feeling fine about it; the winner, God of Love, is an excellent film.

An hour later I am in Banksy's after-show party chatting to Thom Yorke. Unbelievably, I resist the urge to tell him I love him and I spend the rest of the night harrassing anyone I see with a beard because I suspect Banksy has facial hair. At some point I talk to Russell Brand about Jeremy Paxman. He is a handsome, intelligent, scarecrow of a man.

On the way back I am interviewed by ITV and given a minature Oscar statuette. I fall asleep on the hotel bathroom floor, wondering why the hell my suite has a ceramic frog in it.